Anniversary
Confessions call for olive oil,
sentences with swirling bread,
spoons flip me back from legs that dance
around the truth, which tries to dance
towards me, easier to catch oil
with a spatula, or baking bread
in my hands. You say I should break bread
to ask and give thanks, not just dance
with my fingers, nervous as oil.
Bread-maker fingers slide like oil in my hand to dance.
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